


Farewell, My King

by felandaris



Series: Caboodles and Chantry Boys [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Beards, Blindfolds, Cunnilingus, F/M, Highever, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Ostagar, Redcliffe, Sparring, The Calling, give me your tears now, lovemaking, tear jar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he starts hearing the Calling, Alistair spends his final days with Cullen and Trevelyan before heading to the Deep Roads.<br/>Chapter 2 with art (SFW & NSFW)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OblivionScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OblivionScribe/gifts).



> For my friend OblivionScribe, who despite his own excessive writing talent gave me this challenging, wonderful prompt. We share the tear jar on this one.  
> Please note that this is very much an alternate ending- I’m nowhere near done writing these three.  
> 

“And you’re absolutely sure this cannot be stopped?"

“Yes, unfortunately,” Alistair nods patiently for the third time.

Cullen returns the nod, nervous fingers flexing at his side. His throat is parched, his stomach churning. But the magnitude of what the king told him in the privacy of his quarters hasn’t hit him with full force. Rather the disturbing news is seeping into his conscious, eating into his mind like a silent parasite. He’s drawing on his soldier’s wits, focussing on the practical over the painful. Squinting, whether from the sun’s glare or in concentration, the Commander tries to make sense of what he just learned.

“So this Calling, this _song_ you’re hearing…,“ he pauses as if contemplating the absurdity of what he’s about to say. “It’s drawing you to the Deep Roads where you’ll die fighting Darkspawn?”

Alistair flinches at the mention of his own peril, his eyes closing then opening on an exhale. His smile is crooked with lopsided sarcasm. “A truly heroic death. Not that my people will get much of a chance to marvel at it given they’ll get the boring version.“ His pitch climbs in mock dramatism. “ _King Alistair, your fearless leader, was claimed by Typhoid! That’s right, people- clean up after yourselves!”_

Cullen ignores the quip. “But Teagan and Eamon know the truth?”

Another nod. “They do, and Teagan will be ready to take over the throne- temporarily of course. Until we - _they_ -,” again he flinches, “figure out a way to ensure proper succession. Won’t be my business then,” Alistair’s voice cracks on the final syllables, and the corners of his mouth struggle to remain still.

Cullen steps past the desk between them. “What about _her_ \- am I to bring the news?” His voice lowers by a half-tone as understanding sets in. “Is that what you summoned me here for?"

Jest returns to Alistair’s eyes as he cocks a brow. “I summoned you, _Commander_ , to discuss _stra-te-gy_.” Cullen can’t help a grin at the droll sing-song that’s so uniquely his. The smile fades when Alistair leans onto the desk, his head dipping between his shoulders, shaped regal and imposing by the velveteen blue uniform. “But yes,” he sighs, frowning like he would from a sudden headache, “I do need you to deliver this to her. In person."

Cullen takes the letter he motions at, turning it in his hands before he looks back at Alistair. “You know she won’t accept this. She’ll try everything in her power to stop it.”

A wry chuckle. “She’ll probably attempt to kill me herself once she learns.”

“Probably.”

Through the ensuing silence the devastating reality permeates, growing harsher and more overwhelming by the second. His Order-steeled focus is losing out, and Cullen cannot help the hot rush of anguish rising in his chest.

  
“How long have you got?” He bites his lip as soon as the words are out. Part of him hopes not to get an answer.

Alistair avoids his glance, but a shaky hands lifts to find his. Gloved fingertips touch, draw little circles around each other in a motion they’ve made their own. One Cullen can’t imagine no longer sharing with him.

When he speaks Alistair continues to stare ahead. “I can’t quite say. Could be weeks, perhaps a month or two. It’s easy to shut out for now but it’ll be getting stronger- until I can’t…“

Their eyes meet then, a single look recalling the serendipity of what they’ve built; shared moments of passion, of giddy laughter and quiet bliss- and the abrupt, stark fear of it all ending.

Cullen doesn’t notice his own steps until Alistair’s breath strokes his cheek, until sandalwood and rosewater tease his nose. His words are a hoarse croak, inaudible if not for the large room’s complete quiet.

“How are you feeling?”

Another deflective half-smile, a dismissive gesture. “Could be worse, I suppose.” But again the façade doesn’t hold up.

Alistair looks at Cullen, _really_ looks at him. Searches deep down the other man’s eyes, whether for answers, for resolve or something else. Suddenly they’re standing even closer, and Alistair’s chest rises and falls against Cullen’s.

“See, I’d have been ready for it. I’d have been perfectly happy to go and die a hero if not for-,” a heavy swallow, a vague motion, “if all of this hadn’t happened.” His Majesty is leaning against Cullen now, looking utterly lost in the uniform, in the finality of what he’s facing.

“I…” Alistair’s bottom lip trembles as if he’s choking on a sob, or perhaps on words he can’t quite say.

Affection grips at his heart along with the urge to _do_ something- tell him it’ll be all right, reverse this curse somehow. But he’s paralysed, _pathetically_ , by his inability to do either. So Cullen smiles, cradling Alistair’s head against his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispers into ginger softness, “I know.” Two simple words, conveying all his tenderness, his concern- but no hope. He breathes a kiss on _that_ spot behind Alistair’s ear, and another. Alistair sighs, his arms tightening around him. The tickling exhale rouses a timid desire in Cullen. He wants, _needs_ to feel more of that warm body, its movements, the life pulsing through it.

They share another look before Alistair lets go. He locks the doors and they make love.

 


	2. The Journey (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy times, smut and beards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wonderful art by Allenvooreef and Oblivionscribe ](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/140862038692/farewell-my-king-chapter-2)

As expected she didn’t take well to the news.

 

Her initial reaction was a stare- at the letter in her hands, then at Cullen. The neat script’s revelation petrified her into a silence longer than he’d ever witnessed.

 

Then, with the abrupt force of a thunderstorm, shock transformed into blinding, absolute rage. Cullen was her first target, barely escaping the flat-handed blows she was landing on him, accompanied by a string of curses. The letter was next, torn up into countless shreds and stomped upon. Her quarters’ décor - figurines, a vase, even the pretty timepiece- didn’t stand a chance against her fury, flung against the nearest wall.

 

The Inquisitor’s screams and swears echoed through the main hall for the rest of the day, and she didn’t emerge for another two days. All the composure and accountability she was known and respected for had evaporated, leaving Skyhold in uneasy mystification.

 

Locked out like everyone else, Cullen had his hands full trying to explain to curious colleagues and concerned companions what was driving their leader to such bizarre behaviours. Between haplessly stuttered stories and hastily deflected rumours of pregnancy, even those most persistent soon knew better than to bother him.

 

On the third evening Trevelyan emerged, aimless anger transformed into fierce determination. Not allowing any questions, she engaged none but the Inquisition’s most trusted members. Spymaster, Tevinter mage and arcanist shared their wealth of knowledge in long meetings. Though never given details of the Inquisitor’s exact motivation, they worked with all the discretion and effort she valued them for. Days were spent researching, nights passed combing the depths of the Inquisition’s library. They summoned a confused Thom Rainier, all but interrogating him on anything he may have picked up in Warden company. Between his accounts, volumes of books and endless research sessions Trevelyan hoped, _needed_ to find answers, a solution, a sliver of hope.

 

But nothing came of it all.

 

On the sixth day she gave up, or so it seemed. She disappeared, much to everyone’s concern- no note nor a trace of the Herald.

 

Cullen found her at the lake, _their lake_ , crying in quiet solitude. He sat down, joining her in staring ahead. Eventually her hand searched his and she spoke. They shared their thoughts on the Calling, the known truth that had become this sudden twist of fate; allowing each other’s closeness and comfort.   

Then they made plans.

 

When they left for Skyhold lingering dread had transformed into resolve to embrace and cherish whatever time they had left.

 

\----

 

They met Alistair in Highever- that is, they almost didn’t.

 

Once arrived at the main square, Cullen and Trevelyan found themselves lost in the crowd, unable to make him out. No longer used to blending in nor sure what attire to expect Alistair in, they stood by the grocer’s, clueless and aware of curious eyes. When Cullen’s jaw clenched in irritation Trevelyan braced herself for a sweeping statement on the situation’s utter ridiculousness. Not an eye’s blink later, however, a cheerful voice ended their confusion.

 

“Spare sum coins for a poor sod to buy a bit o’ cheese?”

 

The broad drawl may have fooled some, but not them. Likewise the nondescript armour might have concealed his identity to less familiar gazes. But the second they turned Cullen and Trevelyan knew they’d found him.

 

It could have been his playful cadence, the mention of beloved dairy produce or the sparkle of green within amber eyes that gave him away. When she squealed as he twirled her around, Trevelyan realised how much she’d missed each of those, and all of him. Once he’d set her down she noted how Alistair wasn’t showing any obvious signs of this Calling- _not yet_. Quick to cast aside the unwelcome thought, she interrupted his chat with Cullen, asking what they were to do now.

 

She knew the long trip and their colleagues’ confusion had been worth it when Alistair’s eyebrow arched up along with the edges of his mouth.

 

“Let’s _mingle_ , shall we?”

 

And mingle they did.

 

The Inquisitor, her Commander and Ferelden’s retired monarch spent the day exploring the town centre, trying local fare and spending coin. At some point a haggling contest manifested between Cullen and Alistair. Bartering with merchants at the bustling market, they seemed intent to outdo each other in getting the best offer. Though sceptical at first, Trevelyan emerged a clear winner- and owner of two new lockets, three bracelets and a genuine white fennec fur (or so the vendor had insisted).

 

News of His Majesty’s sudden death had made the trip up north along with Cullen and Trevelyan.  Patrons at the tavern had few other topics. Whilst not getting too close to risk exposure, the three spent a lively night eating, drinking and exchanging stories with the locals. As the evening progressed and the tab grew they even shared a few songs, the men again thriving on their competitive streak. Alistair would steal the tune from Cullen, only encouraging him to sing with more fervour, much to the crowd’s entertainment.

 

Merry melodies were still rolling off their lips when they fell into their bed upstairs, cramming onto the slim mattress seconds before deep sleep claimed them.

 

The next morning the Waking Sea’s fresh breeze made quick work of any ale-induced headaches. Bright and early the three set out to Highever’s shores. Harsh winds stroked Trevelyan’s cheeks, dazzling sunshine leaving her squinting, though failing to make the view any less impressive.

 

Sharp cliffs towered majestic and imposing, withstanding wave after frothy wave breaking against their rugged surface. While prolonged by the Cousland family’s insistence on forgoing another grand memorial, their search was a scenic walk across the deserted beach. A blend of pebbles and sand rustled under their feet with each step. Trevelyan opened her mouth to speak, the gust bathing her lips in salt when Alistair strode up to the cliff’s edge.

 

“This is it!”

 

A rock as old as time itself marked the spot. While commemorated by statues throughout the country, the Hero of Ferelden’s final resting place lay as humble as it was harrowingly beautiful; her body forever merged with the ocean’s endless depths.  

 

The winds seemed to quieten down, the sun to shine a little brighter when Alistair got down on one knee, chin dropping to his chest.

 

Trevelyan stood back, her head falling onto Cullen’s shoulder.  Together they watched Alistair pay silent tribute, turned into himself in a wordless exchange- perhaps telling truths he never got to voice. To this day tales of the Warden, the saviour, of _his love_ would always brighten his eyes. Trevelyan wondered what would have become of Alistair and the Lady Cousland had they seen the happy future they’d so cruelly been denied. Watching the turbulent play of water unravelling below, she mused how Elissa and Alistair’s lives had been but tiny pebbles on the waves of fate; tossed around, powerless against decisions made for them in the name of the greater good. Even now, he was looking back at ten years of a rule he’d never wanted, facing an end he couldn’t avert. Winding her arm around Cullen, she bit her lip at the thought of their trips’ inevitable conclusion.

 

Right now, however, their journey was just beginning as Alistair got up and walked towards them. Though a hint of heartache may have been tugging at his lips he seemed at peace. When he stood before them his face lit up with the enthusiasm of a young boy about to go on the most exciting adventure.

 

“Let’s go,” he said.

 

\----

 

And so they travelled. Their route led them southwards- through the Bannorn, past New Lothering and down the Imperial Highway.

 

Four weeks they spent on horseback crossing through woods, passing rivers and the odd village. Their progress was unhurried, their journey a purpose in itself. Though they stocked up on supplies whenever they came across a merchant, now and then the trio would go hunting or fishing. Alistair and Trevelyan fondly recalled their own travelling days, and she was impressed by how well Cullen adapted.

 

Most evenings they camped, sharing a tent somewhere between crammed and cosy. Though enjoyable, they made use of the sparse luxuries of any inn they found. They would book two rooms, sometimes with Cullen and Alistair flipping a coin to decide who’d enter Trevelyan’s quarters with her. Once the premises had quietened down the other man would emerge from his own chamber and join them. Those nights sleep usually found them late.

 

Time pieces were abandoned, nature dictating their days and schedules. It didn’t take long for the men to show timid signs of beard growth- much to Trevelyan’s initial disapproval. Soon, however, she learned to appreciate the stubbly scratches accompanying soft kisses, rasping over her skin. Grooming routines ceased to exist, and along with the beards grew their hair. Whilst Alistair’s beginning mane shone in flaming shades of crimson, Cullen’s curls spiralled out around his head, a mass of sandy blonde brilliance. It wasn’t until he woke up one morning with a fluffy braid on either side of his face (and to vague memories of Alistair cackling) that he began tying his hair at the back.

 

The travel, the outdoors and the return to a simpler life proved an epiphany for Alistair. Liberated from the court's confines, he was sprightly as ever, full of energy and always carried a jest on his lips. Even the occasional sting of a sudden headache or the odd nightmare, forebodes of his fate, were no match for his high spirits.

 

They sought out different locations Warden Alistair had once traversed. Each coaxed a new joke, another story out of him; whether it was the cave that had held a cache of food which, to his delight, consisted mostly of cheese; the site of the dwarf's drunk sing along with their now-Spymaster; or a collection of quotes from the Antivan elf, as charmingly witty as they were shockingly lecherous. Revisiting his youth was as much dear nostalgia to Alistair as it proved entertaining to Cullen and Trevelyan, who was certain she’d never tire of his anecdotes.

 

Even episodes of their own, threesome times were reprised. One late afternoon, having just set up camp, the men decided to pass some time sparring. Trevelyan couldn’t tell whether they were relieving the stress of a day’s ride, or whether it was an intrinsically male ambition that drove them. She could merely observe their increasing fierceness. Each strike was parried with sharp precision, every blow came little harder, and animalistic grunts grew louder by the minute. Light footed steps chased each other, weapons cut through the air and steel collided with merciless steel. Their use of real swords added another layer of dangerous allure to the dramatic display.

 

No later than when Cullen, then Alistair tore his shirt off with a growl did she shift uncomfortably in her impromptu seat on the ground. It struck her how they were re-enacting, intentionally or not, the much-spectated session at Skyhold- the beginning of their relationship all those months ago. Trevelyan smiled to herself at the near-innocence of their first night together; exploring what they already knew was right. The setting sun bathed her knights’ silhouettes in shades of maroon and orange, growing shadows caressing bulging muscle.

 

As soon as the swords hit the ground Trevelyan was on her feet, unbuttoning her tunic as she strode towards them; intent on allowing her hands to imitate what her eyes had been doing all along.

 

Dinner was skipped in favour of feverish lovemaking. Within their tent’s confines the three writhed and rolled on the ground in a sweaty tangle of limbs, none able to get enough of the others; trying with their whole bodies to touch, taste and absorb, as if clinging to life itself. Hips rocked a little harder with each thrust, and the air became thicker with every breathless moan, each whispered name.

 

Trevelyan was the most fortunate, most powerful woman in Thedas as she rode them both, clutching at hair, muscle, whatever she could grasp. The tent nearly collapsed from her erratic motions, the central pole caught by Alistair’s ( _or Cullen’s?_ ) quick hand. But she couldn’t possibly care on this night that was both heated celebration and desperate affirmation. Somewhere between the obscene slaps of flesh, the sting of blunt nails digging into her hips she wailed out her release, drawing their own ends from her lovers; creamy warmth and breathless endearments.

 

The morning began with lazy love and continued with a hearty breakfast. A nearby pond allowed them to wash off the sweat, if not the marks they’d left on each other. Throughout the day’s travels the lovers recalled the night’s exertions, exchanging knowing looks and telling smiles.

 

\----

 

Ostagar brought a change in mood.

 

Trevelyan hadn’t expected all this green, so much _life_. Amid the battlefield of old had grown lush planes of grass, majestic trees and colourful dustings of flowers. While deserted and almost bare of any structures, Trevelyan spotted rabbits, nugs, even a few deer. If not for the overgrown wooden board commemorating Ostagar’s fallen, she would have thought this place but a peaceful meadow lying quiet in the evening’s descending sun.

 

Alistair, of course, saw past the tranquillity. As soon as they'd entered through the mouldy fence his step slowed, his shoulders hunching and gaze dropping.

 

While Cullen was taking a cautious look around for any lurking dangers, Alistair headed towards an inconspicuous spot near the edge of the field.

 

“That's where his tent was,” he mumbled, staring at a growth of weeds of various shapes and colours that possibly concealed a rusty metal bar.

 

“King Cailan's, that is,” he added in absentminded explanation. “And Loghain’s,” he spat, glaring at an empty spot nearby. Trevelyan noticed Cullen tensing up at the mention of the disgraced Hero of the Dane. A moment passed before Alistair’s features relaxed with a sigh that bore resignation, hindsight and perhaps a hint of understanding if not forgiveness.

 

He strode on, leaving Cullen and Trevelyan to follow him as he commented on places they came across- where his own tent had been; the dog kennels; where he’d first met Elissa following an argument with a mage, so petty he shook his head.

 

Then his voice trailed off mid-sentence, his step slowing so abruptly Cullen almost collided with him.  Again Alistair’s head dipped, and from trembling lips fluttered a shaky whisper.

 

“This is where I last saw Duncan.” No other sounds succeeded his shaky words for a while. Cullen and Trevelyan stood by Alistair’s side as he remembered the man who’d been his comrade, teacher and father all at once.

 

A cooling breeze and timid shades of pink blending into pale blue foretold the impending sunset.

 

Cullen’s hand rubbed gentle circles into Alistair’s shoulder, his voice soft and considerate. “What would you like to do?”

 

Alistair stepped back, facing his companions with the shy uncertainty of their first encounters. “Would it be silly to hold watch?”

 

“Not at all,” Trevelyan wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight in reassurance. Leaning into her embrace, Alistair exhaled relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” he sighed.

 

“Always,” she whispered into a coarse handful of beard. Cullen nodded his agreement, walking off to get firewood. They set up by the Tower of Ishal’s ruins, shielded from gusts of wind that were growing colder every night.

 

The evening began in prayer, Cullen reiterating quiet words of solemnity to honour those who’d given their lives for Ferelden.

 

Once finished the three fell into a long silence, broken only by the fire’s crackling melody. At some point a half-sentence was spoken, then another, eventually transitioning into conversation. Talk gave way to tales- of the great battle, the Grey Wardens and of Duncan; his story, his guidance and inspiration. And of Elissa- her reckless enthusiasm, her unique stubbornness and how he’d been completely smitten by both.

 

As the flames dwindled the lovers snuggled up in their tent, finding warmth and solace in each other.

 

\----

 

The seasons changed, as did Alistair. As leaves wilted and trees shone in orange and amber his headaches grew stronger by the day, forcing more frequent stops. Regular nightmares plagued him, rousing the others along with him.

 

He retained his wry cheer, brushing off Cullen and Trevelyan’s concerns with a smile and a laconic joke. As they neared Redcliffe Village, however, melancholy got the better of him, draining the spirit from his eyes and the humour from his voice.

 

Aware of possible recognition in the town Alistair had grown up in, they camped on its periphery, exploring Redcliffe and the surrounding Hinterlands at their leisure: the woods through which an imaginative young Alistair would chase dragons and ride griffons; the shores where he’d gone fishing; the stables outside the castle grounds where he’d first sat on a horse.

 

It was with sentimental curiosity that he pointed out all the changes Redcliffe had undergone since his childhood; most notably the erection of the giant monument to the Hero of Ferelden, but also the replacement of his favourite sweet-roll shop with an Orlesian bakery.

 

Alistair’s tales grew shorter as he struggled to concentrate, desperate to shut out the ever-louder song calling for him.

 

One night the three were preparing dinner, Trevelyan peeling vegetables while Cullen was starting the fire. The clanking of heavy iron accompanying laborious footsteps indicated Alistair’s return with a pot full of water. When a gush of liquid followed along with a hissed curse, Trevelyan turned to see the pot on the ground amid a growing puddle. Alistair stood frozen to the spot, glaring frustration and contempt at his outstretched, wildly trembling hands.

 

Trevelyan got up, but Alistair shook his head, his expression bitter. “Excuse me,” he growled, spinning on his heel to storm off.

 

She found him by the riverside, squatting under a tree. When she closed in she noticed the quiet sobs shaking his frame.

 

On their own accord her arms wrapped around his powerful torso that sat so hunched, so fragile. When her cheek touched upon his back she hummed, notes of compassion, though not of hope. He rose and they stood together in silence. Trevelyan breathed all her comfort into his shoulder, placing a fluttering kiss on his neck for each tear that rolled from his chin.

 

When Alistair turned it was a slow, almost reluctant movement. His gaze remained downcast as he took two, three deep breaths before he managed to speak.

 

“I was _prepared_ ,” his eyes darted upwards, glistening with anguish, “and then you happened. _Both of you_ ,” he looked at Cullen, whose approach he’d sensed.

 

His own bottom lip quivering, Cullen could only nod and embrace them both.

 

They knew it was time then.

 

\----

 

A rustic inn on Redcliffe’s outskirts became the venue of their last meal. They rented a small top-floor suite with its own dining room, secluded from any distractions.

 

Cullen and Alistair emerged shaven and with trimmed manes, practical armour exchanged for new shirts and sleek trousers. Trevelyan’s dress of green satin flowed from her hips, flaunting her femininity to appreciative eyes.

 

The lovers feasted- on meat and fish, cheese and wine and on gluttony itself. They took their time enjoying food and stories, drinks and jests; doubling over once more at Alistair’s impression of the witch and marvelling at Cullen’s ever-flawless renditions of Fereldan folk tunes.

 

Once the last bottle sat empty and the rising moon’s silver glow flooded the room they stood. Hand in hand they crossed the creaky floor towards the bed, adorned with fluffy pillows and bathed in warm candlelight.

 

Though hungry for each other they made a point of savouring the sluggish glide of fabric, rolling each button between their fingers as they unwrapped one another. Trevelyan’s breaths grew heavier, her core slicker as her knights peeled her from her layers with their hands, lips and teeth.

 

Soft moans echoed indulgence rather than urgency, patient skin pursuing languid sensuality over quick release. Kisses lingered longer, tongues probed deeper, relishing familiar tastes or perhaps hoping to uncover new ones. Movements as gentle and graceful as the play of light and shade spoke of eternity, not mortality, of embracing the moment and each other.

 

Trevelyan cradled Cullen’s head in her lap, combing through his hair as she watched Alistair love him. With Cullen’s legs hugging his waist he elicited the dearest mewl, prying him open with a tenderness that knew no Calling, no song. Cullen’s face contorted with the sting of sweet intrusion as he accommodated him, _his king still_.

 

Seeing her knights share each other’s bodies made her own affection burn hot and true, pulsing through her with every heartbeat. They moved with each other, _for_ each other; their motions fluent, life-affirming, echoing their own refusal to acknowledge their final time.  She watched in open-mouthed awe as they found their rhythm, tongues playing while their hips rose and fell. Moaned with them as they stole each other’s breath. And she stroked sweaty curls from Cullen’s forehead as both came in a delirious blur of musk and hisses, kisses and whispers.

 

Lying down between them, she nestled into their trembling frames. Her fingertips traced softening features, soothing flushed skin.  Their heavy lids and content smiles tugged at her heart, sending a warm tingle through her tummy as she watched them drift off.

 

The curious exploration of slender fingers roused her from a nap she didn’t realise she’d taken. Curling into his caress, she was about to open her eyes when a silken cool closed over her face. She recognised the blue scarf as her head was lifted to tie it. The surge of panic lasted a mere second before she relaxed into the pillows, leaving herself at Alistair’s mercy.

 

He started at her ear, shivering breath foreboding his lips’ tug at her lobe. Trevelyan jerked at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, at only being able to _feel_.

 

Reclined in Cullen’s arms, she followed Alistair’s progress not with her eyes but her whole body. Thin, invisible hairs bowed under sweeping lips. Skin prickled with flush from even the quickest tongue flick, the lightest graze of teeth. Her heart galloped faster with each inch he advanced.

 

From behind strong hands emerged, cupping her bosom for Alistair to feast on. The squeeze of Cullen’s fingers did nothing to ease the pull deep in her core, that most primal longing. But as he closed in and she sensed his tongue sneak out those wide palms folded over her breasts, eliciting a frustrated huff to echo Cullen’s chuckle.

 

When the hands lifted Trevelyan managed but one breath of respite before finally, _thankfully_ , Alistair’s mouth found her. His lips’ impact on her waiting skin sent a shudder through her, so violent she clawed at Cullen’s thighs for sheer relief.

 

He explored her with the greed of a man starved, tracing each tiny pebble surrounding her nipples, poking at the stiff peaks with his tongue; sucking them long and irate; blowing until she was quivering. Trevelyan felt, _no,_ _absorbed_ his caresses with an all-new intensity. He’d _learned_ her, her body, knowing all the places to exploit and entice, to conjure that almighty need to thrum in her veins, her sex.

 

Down her torso he roamed, fingers and lips mapping and tracing. She rocked into his touch, sinking out of Cullen’s embrace to lie flat on her back.

 

By the time his hair brushed the insides of her thighs she was soft and soaked, weak with lust. When he parted her with the tip of a finger she hummed, moaning low in her throat when his tongue repeated the motion. First the flexed tip, then the body of the supple muscle dove inside, and her pleasure flowed straight into him. Alistair suckled and savoured, rolling her flavour on his tongue, _noisily_ ; sighing an enraptured _ah_ as he swallowed.

 

He relished the delicacy of her lips, coated in honey. One by one he tended to them, laving in unhurried indulgence. The _sounds_ he made as he sucked them into his mouth had her bucking into his face in hapless surrender.

 

Letting her folds slip from his lips, Alistair licked up her length once, and again. Trevelyan’s cry drowned out his laugh when his pointed tongue found her clitoris, twitching with need. Another few clever swipes and the tremors began at her apex. With a strangled grunt Alistair sucked in the tiny shaft, tugging until her body erupted in shudders and moans. He nursed her through climax, prolonging it with gentle suckles. Gradually Trevelyan recovered her breath, her senses. She tore off her own blindfold to pull him in for a kiss, deep and urgent.

 

He tasted of wine, of her and of _not yet_. When they broke apart, drunk on each other, he didn’t need to ask. She nodded, her legs sliding open to welcome him in.

 

Alistair’s eyes rolled back and his full lips parted as he savoured the slow descent into her heat. They had been together on many cherished occasions, writhing under the other’s body, giving and taking. Tonight, though, she knew him with every neve, every cell of her skin as he filled her. The thick head of him rubbed past her entrance, his girth stretching her, and she arched up as he rose inside her.

 

His ginger locks were silk under her hands as they rocked, every thrust a new rush of pleasure. Her teeth found his lobe, relishing his stifled cry into the crook of her neck. Their motions, their sighs, their intertwined fingers didn’t allow for any thoughts, any reality beyond this moment they were gifting each other.

Alistair’s lips scouted, breathing fluttering kisses on her forehead, her lids; tracing her nose with his own; brushing down her cheekbones as if admiring her beauty.

 

He looked at her, his searching gaze boring far into her being. A hint of anguish swept across his face, dimming the green shimmer in his eyes as he pleaded, “Don’t forget me.”

 

The mere insinuation had her shaking her head, her whisper a sob. “How could I ever?” Alistair hummed as he kissed away her tears one by one.

 

And then her heart leapt, her soul rejoiced when he breathed three precious words into her ear, just for her to hear. Three words, three simple syllables that reiterated everything their dalliance had grown into. Three words he had told her many times with his body, with his eyes. But in his strained voice against her heated skin they became the dearest melody, the truest conclusion to their journey.

 

From the corner of her eye she spotted a hand stroking Alistair’s hair just as Cullen’s lips caressed a trail of shivers down her neck. She knew then they had found their destination in each other.

 

Another look, the sweetest whisper of a kiss. Alistair’s eyes never left hers when he retreated then drove into her. His breath picked up speed along with his strokes, as did the hand that had slipped between them.

 

She caught in his face the strain of holding back as climax ruptured through her once more. Her whole body clutched at him, his name ringing above them in a mindless chant. Only when she was well and truly unravelling did he permit himself to come. Alistair’s voice broke, his forehead touching upon hers as he gave her his seed.

 

Limbs relaxed, sweat dried and spent length softened. Reluctance slowed Alistair’s movements, though she pressed into his embrace as soon as he’d rolled off her. Tonight it was Cullen humming their lullaby, soothing notes stroking their ears and minds. Words weren’t needed nor sufficient to express what smiling eyes, lazy pecks and ticklish feet conveyed.

 

Happiness lulled them to sleep- the same warm fulfilment they’d so serendipitously found in one another. The last image to seep into her conscious was Alistair’s smile, itself a most precious memory.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks quite the departure from my usual stuff so comments and thoughts are extra welcome. Thank you for reading! ^__^


	3. The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter- this is it. (packs bags)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Recommended music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQFSOKfzwdY)   
> 

Sunlight permeates, radiates, dominates. Its bright warmth sweeps across the room- touching upon miniscule dust flakes, gradually bleaching timber floors and tickling yet-closed lids into reluctant wakefulness.

Cullen stirs, rolling onto his back, heavy arms stretching. His eyes blink themselves open only to squeeze shut again at the white gleam greeting him. Yawning, he takes another peek.

Though autumn has arrived and wilted leaves line the roads, this morning sings of freshness, of new beginnings, of _life._

A smile plays on his lips as he remembers the night. It fades into a horrified grimace when he makes out just one figure beside him.

Cullen shoots up, ruffling his hair as anguish rolls over his body with full force. It constricts his throat, twists in his stomach like a hot knife. Then denial sets in- a brief, feeble rebellion of his soul as he stares at the treacherous empty spot, occupied merely by a crumpled scarf. He shakes his head, unaccepting, _willing_ him to come back.

The utter futility leaves him weak, helpless like he hasn’t felt since his Lyrium days. His face contorts with pain, an all-encompassing ache as devastating as the irreversible truth that Alistair is _gone_.

Panic rises in his chest when she stirs awake next to him. He scrambles for his pants, for some semblance of control. Her head lifts, and Cullen recognises her going through the same motions as he. Unlike him she doesn’t sit but _leaps_ up with a shriek, shrill and harrowing.

Cullen all but falls out of bed behind her, barely keeps her from opening the door, wrestling her down. She fights him with all she’s got, kicking and punching, wiggling in desperate attempts to free herself and go after Alistair. _She’s wearing his shirt still._

And she never stops crying, screaming. An endless litany of _Nonononono_ \- loud, distorted wails broken by sobs so forceful they shake her small frame. She chokes a few times- on her tears, her despair, on the cruel certainty of their loss.

All Cullen can do is to sit and hold on to her, repeating her name while rocking her as much as she’ll allow. He coos _shush_ and _please_ into her tousled hair that he keeps stroking with hopeless stoicism. Footsteps approach but retreat again- the innkeeper must have thought better of intruding.

Time has lost all purpose. It couldn’t ever measure how they’re crouched on the hard floor, holding onto each other, drowning in their long-foreseen but so painfully sudden grief.

Now and then she’ll wiggle out of his arms and make a couple of steps towards the door. Every time he catches her, drags her down as she convulses anew with tears. He’s powerless, incapable of soothing her ache and crippled by his own.

Eventually she gives up, slumping into herself. He hugs her even tighter then, almost crushing her, _needing_ to feel her. The sun moves as they sit there, its beam shifting to another corner, leaving them in a growing chill that creeps up from their toes.

Cullen tilts her chin up with his fingertip, a gesture that belongs to happy moments. Her brow sits creased in a frown so deep it looks sore. She’s struggling to keep her bottom lip still, and he can _hear_ the lump she swallows. At last she leans into his embrace, accepting his pathetic attempt at solace.

He helps her onto the bed, rubbing patient circles into her back until he’s comfortable leaving her side. From his pack he produces a pouch and sits down to untie its flimsy lace.

She gasps when he pulls out the wooden box that was Alistair’s Satinalia gift- _the one they weren’t to open while the three of them remained together_. She snatches it from him, tracing the lid’s intricate carvings with curious fingertips.

Cullen turns away, closing his eyes as he fights the sudden flashback of Alistair’s sing-song, of that playful sparkle in amber eyes, _a mere memory now_. He flinches at the vision of their friend, lover, _always_ _his king_ , wading through snow on his lonely way to Orzanmar. Agony keeps its tight grip on his heart, and he _wants_ to cry, _wants_ to scream. At the Prophet, the Maker, whatever cruel force gifted them this man only to tear him right from their lives. But he needs to be there for her.

She’s fumbling with the latch, her fingers shaky. Cullen assists her, bracing himself for what might await them. The lid creaks, and he lifts it with slow deliberation.

Cullen and Trevelyan’s mouths drop open as they stare at the small case. Slowly, open-mouthed confusion gives way to wide-eyed understanding.

Then they smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's in the box? Let me know your ideas!  
> The box makes its first appearance [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5463923), the scarf [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5103371)(those love scenes are cringeworthily similar...)  
> This piece has felt like a test of character, like redefining myself as a writer almost. Every like, reblog, message and comment has felt extra special.  
> Thank you for joining me on this journey!


	4. What's in the box?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of readers' guesses as to what may be in the box Alistair leaves with Cullen and Trevelyan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the greatest rewards for a writer is for their work to inspire others. The ending of Farewell, My King has produced a few interesting (and heart-breaking) theories which I'm sharing here.  
> Every one of them is precious and my thanks go out to each of you who contributed.  
> If you have an idea you'd like me to add, let me know!

**Wendy (AO3)** : I have a guess that Alistairs pendant was in the box...the one mentioned in _[Musings of a Royal Bastard](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3700610)_....with the Cousland crest. Maybe he was finally able to let go of the past, Elissa, and the regret of what they didn't have?

 

 **Dankiawarden (Tumblr)** : As to what's in the box….hm….what about two pieces of cheese, one for each of them, and a drawing of Alistair’s happiest memory with them?

 

 **Botticella89 (Tumblr):**  Wooden figurines of the three together is my guess.

 

(There were more but I can't find them all, so if yours is missing please let me know!)

 

 **Omnipotentoverlord on Tumblr wrote this gorgeous, heartwrenching short** :

Cullen and Trevelyan open the wooden box left for them by Alistair - and are struck momentarily dumb by shock.  Inside they find three figurines; the first is older, and worn, and bears a striking resemblance to Alistair wearing splintmail.  Its little face is smiling brightly, though the paint of its mouth seems to have been nearly rubbed clean and reapplied over the years.  The rest of its paint has also worn away in some places and been touched up in others.  It’s seen better days, and has all the tells of a well loved child’s toy.

The other two miniatures are newer - their colors still shining brightly - and resemble Cullen and Trevelyan too much to be coincidence.  The latter has a tiny splattering of green paint across its hand while the former wears a smirk on its painted face that doesn’t do its original justice.  

And the pieces in the lovers’ heads click - moments when the pair would walk in on Alistair sitting at a table or on the bed, speaking in silly voices with his arms dancing about before him oddly.  Once they had watched tiny legs and feet disappear under his arms as he had scooped his distractions out of sight upon their entry; his face blooming with a blush they found too adorable to ignore.  They’d confronted him about his ‘dollies’ but their king scoffed at the idea, though the creeping blush returned.

And here they were.  Alistair’s precious playthings.  Tucked away in a box that bore four tiny indentations.  Four.  Not three.

One of the dolls was missing.

The two exchange a knowing look, smiling at what the gesture meant.  Cullen lifts the toy Alistair to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on its painted head, his eyes closing for a second at the twisting in his heart.  He then gives Trevelyan the same opportunity before laying the toy back down beside the empty slot.

It seems only right that Alistair had kept _her_ doll.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Find me (and the boys) on Tumblr!](https://http://cullenstairshenanigans.t%20Tumblr.com) ʘ‿ʘ


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